


S(t)ick

by allthebros



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Frottage, Heatwave, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, frat broys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 05:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros
Summary: It comes upon him like the weather: slow, thick, sticky, and unwelcome.





	S(t)ick

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Blackhawks Summer Fic Fest 2017](http://coffeekristin.tumblr.com/post/161101119308/blackhawks-summer-fic-fest-2017). Prompt: [these](http://68.media.tumblr.com/12b7fe6a04785b378a0f7e86d56b96ac/tumblr_inline_or4ysm4QWv1thvwfu_500.jpg) [four](http://68.media.tumblr.com/28d2630e12dc4ab61e305b6172581ef4/tumblr_inline_or4yt7Jh861thvwfu_500.jpg) [pretty](http://68.media.tumblr.com/1448439cb04d669a16ea1b8b94f596d8/tumblr_inline_or4yv3X06Y1thvwfu_500.jpg) [pics](http://68.media.tumblr.com/7db3f09fa1428ec1d83b8b99547fed80/tumblr_inline_or4yuiirBI1thvwfu_500.jpg)

 

 

 

 

It comes upon him like the weather: slow, thick, sticky, and unwelcome. 

 

*

 

It comes in the parking lot of the motel where the heat rises off the cracked asphalt in waves, baking them—same kind you’d see over a grill except the meat is them—and the glint of the sun over the cars blinds, makes Pat blink hard when he turns his head and catches the light off a chrome bumper. 

He can’t even put his hand on the railing without burning his fingers as he follows Jonny up the stairs to their room—Jonny’s t-shirt off, stuffed in the back pocket of his cargo shorts, sheen of sweat over his naked back. That’s where Pat’s eyes get stuck, turning away from the flash of chrome and right onto that slickness, the spot where it runs down the groove of Jonny’s spine, into the dip of his lower back, waistband darker there where it soaked through.

Pat reaches out, like maybe he could press his fingertips into that mess, slide them right back up to Jonny’s wet hairline. But he blinks again, grabs Jonny’s t-shirt and wipes his face with it.

 

*

 

After that, he sticks into moments like syrup.

 

*

 

Like:

At the diner. Neighbour to the motel and clearly serving the same clientele: the ones in town for a few days like Pat and Jonny but too broke to afford the Comfort Inn, and the ones that stayed for just the one time, tapping at the night window after midnight and always paying cash.

The Beach Boys play over the speakers and Jonny hums under his breath, broken and tuneless even at this volume. It’s that sound that has Pat glancing at him, just as he takes a huge bite of his burger, mouth opening wide, with ketchup spilling over and sticking to the corner of his mouth as he chews. 

And he watches. Can’t look away from that spot until Jonny swallows and wipes it off with a napkin. And then—

—At Sharpy’s. 

Pat drops the box he’s carrying from the truck just inside the door, shirt sticking to him already even though they’ve just arrived, Pat going straight to the truck to say hi to Sharpy while Jonny goes in. The sun outside’s so bright he has to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the house. 

“Why’s it so fucking dark in here?”

“Abbie’s keeping the blinds closed,” Jonny says to his left, from the sofa where he’s sitting, head tilted back over the armrest to look at Pat upside down. “She wants to keep the house as cool as possible until they get the A/C going.”

Light comes through the blinds anyway, long lines of it that bisect Jonny’s thigh, paler there where his shorts have ridden up, right across his—

—Back to the motel. 

Both of them staying in ‘cause it’s cooler, though there’s still condensation trickling down Pat’s beer bottle, and he runs his finger down the neck to gather some, sucks it into his mouth before taking a huge gulp of his bottle.

“It’ll be weird at the house without Sharpy,” Jonny says from where he’s sitting at the end of his bed, leaning forward, elbows on knees and beer held loosely between them, always with the wide spread, like his balls are too huge, or his thighs too thick, easy about taking that space.

“We all gotta graduate someday,” Pat says. The arm hole of Jonny’s tank top is wide, Pat can see the dark shadow of his nipple there as it gapes open, past the line of Jonny’s bicep. Can see it’s hard, and—

—Jonny’s hair’s longer, curls under his cap, wet and dark, sticking to his ear, where it’d be easy to—

—slide in the seat beside him, in the truck they borrowed from Sharpy’s new coworker, driving with the windows down to the dump with all the stuff Abbie has no use for in the box, Jonny’s long fingers wrapped loosely on the wheel. 

Pat stares at his knuckles, is jolted out of it only when Jonny breaks suddenly at a red light. It’s—

—again at the diner. This time in a booth, but again Jonny’s mouth. And how it moves as he says, “It was a fucking shitshow, man,” with a delighted little quirk to it like he’s saying, “best beej I ever had,” which he kind of is, so Pat thinks—

—the heat’s getting to him, it must be—

—the three extra beers he had, certainly not—

—Jonny, sleeping on his front, on the unmade bed in his tight underwear, the curve of his ass so—

—insane, so—

—wrong, and also, so—so—so—

—fucking hot—

—out here. 

Pat can’t think in this heat. 

 

*

 

Middle of the night and he’s stumbling out of their motel room, gasping for air like it’s somehow stuffier in there with the A/C instead of out here where even with no sun the air is thick with water, raising sweat out of Pat’s skin right away.

He closes the door behind him, feeling the click of it like the release of pressure. Pressure from waking up and seeing Jonny on the other bed, sleeping practically naked, arm dangling off the side, and skin looking smooth in the low light of the motel’s neon sign coming through the thin curtains. Pressure from getting up to piss and then standing there, in the space between their beds looking at Jonny, the softness of his back, the curve of his ass under the one sheet, and getting hard from it. From just looking at Jonny like that. Wanting on it like he’s wanted girls before, thoughts about it not flashing through his mind but coming in slow and thick, a long spread of heat ending in his cock. 

The neon lights buzz and Pat drags his feet down the stairs to the vending machine, digs in his back pocket for a couple crumpled bills and buys himself a snickers. He eats it there, leaning on the side of the machine, in its shadow. And that’s when he sees them.

The first man walks to the night window and talks to the manager. Pat can’t hear them from where he is across the parking lot, but he doesn’t need to. Only one kind of thing happening at this time of night.

He expects a woman. He definitely expects a hooker. What he gets, though, is another man, same age as the first—early 50s or so—and similarly built. They go up the stairs without touching, but close all the same, hands brushing as they go.

The second man presses himself against the other’s back as he unlocks the door to their room, a couple of rooms before the one he shares with Jonny. Pat takes a few steps to the side so he can see the man with his hands on his partner’s waist and the way he rolls his hips into him making the other laugh, turning his head for a quick kiss.

And then the door opens and they’re gone inside.

Chocolate has melted over his fingers and hand and he finishes the bar in two bites, licks at his fingers and wipes the rest on his shorts, eyes stuck on that closed door.

He goes back up with every intention to go back to his room, but finds himself stopping there, in front of that door, listening in for something, some kind of noise. Something that’ll make his dick less hard. Something that’ll gross him out.

But he hears nothing and eventually he moves, gets back inside and closes the blinds without looking at the bed where Jonny’s still sleeping, plunging the room in the dark properly.

He fucks his own fist slowly, other hand on his mouth.

 

*

 

So of course, the A/C breaks.

 

*

 

Sharpy offers them his basement, but Jonny refuses, says, “we’ve already paid and it’s only one night,” glancing at Pat like he’s looking for confirmation that it’s okay, so Pat shrugs, like sure, whatever.

“Didn’t want to impose on them on their first proper night in their new house,” Jonny tells him later on their way back to the motel, after they’ve all said goodbye, Sharpy exacting a promise out of them to give shit to all the boys at the frat when fall comes. “I got a legacy,” he says.

“That’ll be us one day,” Pat says, meaning what Sharpy and Abbie have.

Jonny takes long enough to answer, Pat turns his head to look at him, Jonny catching the movement out the corner of his eye probably because he blinks, looks back at Pat and shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says. 

 

*

 

They shotgun beers in the bathtub. 

 

*

 

Not for the first time Pat thinks it must be the heat, must be the sun on his head for most of the day fucking with his brain somehow, ‘cause he’s cool at his back where he’s leaning against the tile, but still warm at the front. Sticky there with sweat and beer, trying not to push his hips forward too much so Jonny doesn’t see the chub he’s got watching him. 

Jonny throws his head back and downs the beer. It trickles fast and messy over his chin and between his pecs and it’s not something Pat hasn’t seen before—used to it even, used to partying with Jonny, drinking and getting shitfaced, shotgunning more than just beer. But now. Now there’s booze in his bellybutton and at his waistband and Pat—

—gets out of the bathtub, gets on his knees and pukes in the toilet.

“You got heatstroke or something?” Jonny says behind him, but Pat doesn’t answer, only pays attention to the way his breathing echoes in the bowl.

 

*

 

Heatstroke it must be, because things go like this:

Sunset coming in diffused through the thin curtains, this thick, sluggish orange colour that bathes the room red. Both of them on their backs in their underwear on Jonny’s bed, with only the sounds of the TV on low and the whoosh-whoosh of the ceiling fan. Putting ice cubes on their stomachs and seeing who lasts longer without moving them away, water running down their sides and into the bedspread.

Pat breathes the syrupy air and it sticks inside his windpipe, all thoughts zeroed in on where Jonny’s arm is sticking to his in the small space between their bodies.

Jonny’s so tanned he looks dark in this light, warm brown and practically hairless, and Pat looks down at where they touch, at the contrast of their skin, Patrick’s more tanned than usual but always paler than Jonny’s.

“I gotta—” he says to the ceiling, swinging his legs to the side but getting stuck there, sitting on the edge of the bed not knowing where to go. Piss, he thinks. He’s gotta piss. Gotta get moving. Gotta get out of this room, this light, the feel of Jonny’s skin against his all contributing to fuck with his head. 

Jonny’s touch on his back is light, nothing more than a brush, but Pat’s still surprised at it, wants to pull away, but instead turns, sees the slight concern on Jonny’s face, brows drawn together and mouth flat.

“What’s gotten into you, man,” Jonny says, softly.

The ‘you’ is on his lips before he can realize he’s thought it, hysterical laugh bubbling into his throat at the cheesiness of it, the disgusting idiocy, but instead he says, “it’s this heat, man, I can’t—”

Think. Sleep. Fucking drink a beer like normal. Look at Jonny and see what he used to see.

The concerned look doesn’t leave Jonny’s face and he gets his elbows under him, partly sits up, the movement making his abs contract.

He’s caught in it. Truly fucking caught in this haze. Sluggish as he looks from Jonny’s stomach to Jonny’s face to see that Jonny caught him looking. Caught in Jonny’s gaze—dark and wide with that concerned line between his eyes slowly erased as Pat slides his hand across the bed to the wet spots in the bedspread, to touch his side. 

Caught still as he twists himself around, slow about it and clumsy from not looking away from Jonny’s face, getting to his knees and then, without thinking, slinging a leg over Jonny’s hips to straddle him.

Whoosh-whoosh goes the ceiling fan and Pat’s breathing at the same time. Sitting across Jonny’s groin and blinking away the sweat, the heat around his eyes. Sitting in that thick, syrupy fading light and feeling Jonny’s semi under him, pressing against Pat’s.

He moves. Just a small roll of his hips. Just a hitch because staying still is too difficult, feels impossible. Holding his breath while doing so, and only letting it out when Jonny groans—choked up sound like he tried to swallow it but couldn’t completely.

Jonny’s hands come to rest on Pat’s hips, fingers warm and sticking to Pat’s skin, and still he looks at Pat—concerned completely gone now and replaced by this sort of dumb surprise, edged with fear in the roundness of his eyes. 

The friction’s almost too much, but he keeps at it, rubs their dicks together with rolls of his hips until they’re both properly hard, shaky everywhere except in his thighs and core as he works himself off on Jonny’s dick. Rides it in a way that reminds him of girls riding his. Taking it inside them and fucking themselves on it, Pat holding their hips just like Jonny’s doing now. And the image sticks in his mind, makes him want to puke again, except for how good it feels.

With hands on Jonny’s chest to give himself leverage, he goes at it faster, leaning in over Jonny’s body and changing up the angle, forcing Jonny to move his hands to Pat’s biceps where he squeezes hard, panting fast all the while.

He likes it hard. Always has. Fast and tight, and enough to make the beds where he fucks shake. So he gets his arms beside Jonny’s head and lies over him even more, fucks against his cock that way. 

And that’s better, more familiar. If he wanted to he could close his eyes and pretend he’s fucking Jonny’s pussy. 

But he can’t.

Still fixed on Jonny’s face, eyes glancing from his wet mouth, to the curve of his eyebrow, and the flaring of his nostrils as he breathes hard after a good thrust from Pat’s hips.

It’s slippery too, wet with sweat everywhere, chafing in their underwear, but Pat will come like this. Feels it building inside him with the same languidity as everything else, pressing warm inside, so that when he does—with a strangled noise and a jumping of muscles that has him fucking foward hard, sliding off Jonny’s cock and onto his stomach—it’s not a surprise. How good it feels is, though. Filling his own underwear with come, some of it spilling over onto Jonny’s stomach, and shaking as he does, silent about it except for a loud exhale through his nose.

“Pat—” Jonny breathes, urgent with his grip still on Pat’s arms.

Pat pushes himself up, slides back onto Jonny’s dick, back to riding it, and makes him come that way, rubbing his ass over it like he wants it in. 

Jonny’s face screws up ugly when he comes, groan spilling out of him between the moment his fingers slide over Pat’s skin and then fall to the bed with a dull thud.

The sun goes down and the room loses its red glow, goes dim and dark at the edges.

 

*

 

They sit side by side on the edge of the bed in the gloom of the fading light.

Like an afterthought, Jonny picks at the dry come on his stomach, says, “Gonna shower,” and gets up, closes the door of the bathroom behind him.

 

*

 

The A/C comes back on in the middle of the night, waking Pat up with its whirring suddenly filling the room.

Unsure at first of what woke him up, Pat sits up in bed, blinks in the dark searching for the sound. He looks around, eyes falling on Jonny’s bed where it’s easy to see that he’s awake too, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he never went to sleep at all.

Neither of them say anything.

With a small tilt of his head, Jonny catches Pat’s eyes in the dark, difficult to see if he’s really looking at him, but Pat knows he is, feels his skin prickle with it. And it spreads heavy and electric at the same time along his limbs as he watches Jonny give a sigh, slide from the middle of the bed to the left side so that there’s space there beside him.

Space for Pat.

He breathes. Sits up straighter, is moving before he realizes but stops when he does, one leg off the bed and—

—maybe he could, maybe he—

—should not—

—think.

Should not think so much.

He breathes.

He—

Breathes.

 

 


End file.
